This is more of an experimental writing project. I add to it every now and then.

"Why am I here?" I had asked myself this many times now, wandering seemingly endlessly. I carried a tombstone on my back but for what purpose? Could it be my tombstone? Am I dead wandering for eternity? No it cannot possibly be. The tombstone is inscribed for 1920. How could I be dead if I'm not already born? Is it possible I have never existed in the first place? No, I must see the name of the dead man, the man who I am not, yet I carry the tombstone. Looking upon it I realize that indeed this isn't my tombstone, but the one of my grandfather. I cannot read the name clearly, yet I know it is him. Why though? Why do I carry this tombstone? And so I am brought back to my original question. One that I have no answer for. Why am I here? ~ A madman's excerpts #1

"Am I sane or truly a madman?" The question ran through my mind even as I looked back on previous thoughts. Thoughts that in truth, I couldn't understand myself. They were just random words, with no sequence constantly passing through my mind. Am I mad though? Does that justify my sanity, if any exists within my enclosed thoughts? Could I be sane just by knowing right now this very moment that I have the ability of rational thought, to question my sanity? Is that what makes a sane man? Are these thoughts running through my mind truly sane thoughts then? I suspect not, if they were I couldn't possibly question the rationality of my sanity. The questions running through my head are too many, too fast. They seem more distorted now, as if I can't recall them. Do these thoughts truly indicate either way my sanity? Am I sane or truly a madman? ~ A madman's excerpts #2

"Who am I?" I believe a man should know this answer without having to ask himself, yet do any of us truly know? I have dug into this many times now, each time though I seem to get farther from the answer. My name, my pure identity is lost to me know. Have I pondered this too long? Is it truly a hopeless cause? I sit here now at my desk, a man with no identity, no past, no present. Only my thoughts racing through my head, which seem to lead me nowhere. My mother, my father, any of my siblings, they are lost to me now. Lost in the eternal nothingness that has become who I am. If only I could remember my name! I sit here continually probing my inner thoughts, trying to find the answer. I must ask myself this again before I lose sight of the question. Who am I? ~ A madman's excerpts #3

"What does it mean to lose ones humanity?" I asked myself out loud even as I think it in my head. Does humanity define if you are human? If so I believe I contain neither humanity or a shred of a human in me. The images... oh the images. They flash through my head and yet I know they are my own actions. Will god save me? I know I believe in god, though I don't know why I believe or even when I started. Does that justify losing ones humanity? Falling from the lord? I think not, nor do I think it is justified by your actions. Even as I ramble on in my head, losing sight of my original purpose, I think that It is moreso something you are born with or without. No, that cannot be either, I constantly contradict myself sitting here, always leading me back to where I started. What does it mean to lose one's humanity? ~ A madman's excerpts #4

"Can a man's death justify the actions he has performed while in life?" I once again called upon my inner thoughts to answer the questions that seem unanswerable. If a man murders someone in his life, yet dies saving someone, does his last actions justify the previous? Can you truly redeem yourself, or crumble all you had accomplished in you life by your death? Can my own death determine, even reflect my actions in life? Why, how come I must deal with these questions? Oh dear, the images... so many.... so many horrible things dealt by my hand! If what I ponder is true than there is no hope for me. My death shall be as pathetic as my life, rotting, having my questions unanswered. This is not about me though, but rather about all mankind, how they live, and how they die. Do I have a right to ponder this question. To truly answer with my quickly slipping thoughts... Can a man's death justify the actions he has performed while in life? ~ A madman's excerpts #5

What does it mean to forgive?" Yet another question I must bring upon myself to answer. When one says "I forgive you" is it just for show? Can they truly forgive? Inside is that the last thing they're thinking in some excuse to move on? What is the point of it then? I once heard a man forgive me, but that hatred in his eyes... It was a lie, yes I know that, but to what end? What could one possibly be justifying by saying the words "I forgive you"? This question... I have sat here for what already seems like countless minutes... wasting away my time.. the time I fear might quickly be coming to an end... I fear I must stop for now. My thoughts... they are starting to grow distant again, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. I must ask yet again though, so I may look back apon this question another day and possibly find an answer. What does it mean to forgive? ~ A madman's excerpts #6

"What is it.... to love and to hate?" I have seen it as many times as the images that haunt me, men and women, alone on the streets. The bitterness of one's company could make even me shiver, but why is this so. I have seen, men, women, screaming and even near acts of violence, only to fall into each others arms once more, delaying the inevitable that will burst and consume them one day. I believe they both can be justified as a delay, a delay for what I cannot know, or even why this delay is set forth. My memory grows hazy even as the creatures that have begun stalking my room have grown clear but I believe I had loved once. I have seen scattered notes on a woman, though what became of her is unknown to me, for I am destined to sit here and wait for the monsters that are slowly becoming my life consume me. Though it remains unanswered I must stop once more, the pain in my head is relentless. Oh Lord, what is it to love and hate? ~ A madman's excerpts #7

“What of my name?” It is a simple question now that I think of it. Looking through this riddling journal of mine though, the answer, nor the question are stored on it's pages. A name, is it truly what defines oneself? I have not heard mine, not thought of mine in what now seems to be decades. It resides somewhere in the catacombs of my mind, but in which of the tombs it lurks I know not. This brings me back once more, I have questioned my sanity, my very humanity, without my name I fear I am truly lost. The last substance of what I once was, the monster that takes form in my nightmares is no more. Now my only anchor is my journal... And damn it to Hell! I... I cannot though. God has doomed me to be haunted by my past, and my now slipping sanity. Lucidity is fading again, even as the last shred of hope that I may be redeemed, whether by God's forgiveness, or the grace of clear thoughts fades away. I must ask myself once more before I lose the purpose of my ravings completely. What of it? What of my name? ~ A madman's excerpts #8

“What can change the nature of a man?” I once more find myself in one of my infrequent bouts of lucidity. I cannot remember much, but there are two things I do remember, and know. I know I rave in between journal entries, many of which seem like mad mumblings themselves. The other thing I know, is regret. I can no longer call upon the memories of these “monstrosities” I have written of previously. Perhaps... that is for the best though. I am in a tomb of stone... No, it is not a tomb, this is a prison. I have been locked in here. My only view of the outside world is beyond reach, a single square cut in the stone, well out of reach. God has graced me with a moon though. Which has begun to slip from view. How I came to be here I know not... I have tried searching my memory, but all I can come up with are what I have stated previously. This... regret is so strong I shake in emotional agony. I must truly be a monster, whatever it is I did. I also find myself afraid, this appears to be the most lucid I have been since starting this journal. As described before I feel this lucidity... slipping from me. I know I will be soon lost once more, with this agony gripping me all the while. So... What may change the nature of a man? It must surely be this regret.~ A madman's excerpts #9

Why? Why must I keep asking these damnable questions only to find no answer?! The thoughts found in here as well, ravings? Mad? Crazy? I am no such thing! The very thought of such doubts infuriates me! Can a crazy man write?! Convey his thoughts as clearly as I?! I think not! I will get out of this prison! If it is the last thing I do before rotting away I wi- ~ A madman's excerpts #10

It has been a year since my last entry. I know this only by the temperature of my room, my cell. Three months ago they allowed me a dull pencil once more. These people, they call me a madman. I have called myself a madman. Perhaps my last entry in this journal proves that, but right now I am neither mad nor angry. They have started my on this drug, they will not tell me what it is, and I do not care so long as it keeps me as I am now. They men who keep me alive, give me food, give me these things to write with, the constantly torture me with their words. They are simply different, they think on one path. My mind simply uses many. I once read that insanity is just a minority of one. I disagree with it. Insanity is a punishment no man deserves. It is one's mind trapped in hell. ~ A madman's excerpts #11